


i like that you're broken (broken like me)

by Setkia



Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: And It Is But Then Richie "I Fucking Belong in the Garbage" Tozier Happened, But Also the Weirdest Slow Burn in That Confessions Happen Early But Nothing Happens, But Fuck These Guys Have to Work Through Some Shit, But He Wants to Give Eddie the World, Dealing With Trauma The Only Way Fucked Up Forty Year Olds Can, Eddie Kaspbrak Lives, Eddie's Problem Is He Doesn't Love Himself and Regrets All His Choices in Life, I Haven't Gotten Into It Yet But It's There Cause Handicapped People Need Representation, I Might Have Made This Richie Centric Somehow?, I'm Not a Therapist Nor Do I Understand Psychology, I'm Working Through Some Shit and 100 Percent Projecting Onto Richie, I've Decided This is Slow Burn, Insecure Eddie Kaspbrak, Insecure Richie Tozier, It's a Balancing Game of Evening Out the Angst and Fluff, Just Realized I Should Mention Eddie Has a Prosthetic Arm, Learning to Love Yourself at Forty, M/M, Mutual Pining, Richie Is Not Okay, Richie's Problem is He Hates Himself and Thinks He's Undeserving of Fucking Breathing, Self-Worth Issues, So I Realized Maybe I Should Warn About The Existential Crisis In This One, So When I Started I Thought This Was About Eddie Learning to Love Himself, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, We're Gonna Need A Bigger Boat Worth of Angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-07-08
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:46:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23947888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Setkia/pseuds/Setkia
Summary: “You don’t believe I love you,” Richie repeats, dumbstruck. “Why don’t you believe me?”Eddie finally rises to meet his eyes. What Richie sees reflected in those caramel eyes is heartbreaking. “What’s there to love?”
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 63
Kudos: 227





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CONFESSION: My sole method of consumption of It is through fics and Reddie edits, but I love their dynamic so much and wanted to write a PWP of them bantering through sex, but then feelings happened. Keep this in mind when you see inaccuracies.  
> Title WAS from Halsey until I started writing and realized "broken" by lovelytheband fit this shit more.  
> I see lots of fics where Richie confesses and Eddie secretly loves him too, or Eddie realizes he loves him, and that's great, but I love the idea of a confession that hangs in the air between people with no immediate resolution. And insecure boys steal my heart, so I'm just rolling with it.

Eddie Kaspbrak is kissing him.

_Holy shit, Eddie Kaspbrak’s tongue is inside his mouth at this very moment—_

Every point of contact burns like fire and it _hurts so good_. He feels _alive_ for the first time in (27) _years._ He’s fourteen again and Eddie is just so _pretty_ and frail but oh so brave, it makes his head spin. The pushing and fighting means he can be closer, and he wants to get as close as he can until he can burrow himself underneath his skin and make a home there, able to hear his heart beat in sync with his own. He’s fourteen and girls are icky, but Eddie is pretty and Richie doesn’t need anything but the Losers and Eddie (because Eddie is a Loser, but he’s so much _more_ to Richie, and maybe he can be more too if he just—)

But he’s not fourteen, he’s _forty_ , so as he grabs for Eddie, their bodies are larger than he imagined and he’s got a stubble this time around and Eddie is making sounds, oh so pretty sounds in a deeper voice than he expected, and Richie wants to hear _more, more more—_

Their teeth are knocking against each other and his glasses are askew on his face. If they fall off, he won’t think twice about stepping on them, as long as he can keep himself attached to Eddie, _alive, beautiful Eddie_ , and his lungs are begging at him to take a breath, to _breathe_ , but he can’t because he’s wanted this for his entire fucking life, even when he didn’t remember because every hook up in every bar always had _something_ that reminded him of that summer (the amount of people he’s fucked for wearing fanny packs is embarrassing).

Eddie’s fingers are curled in his shirt, and a distant part of his adult mind thinks about how he doesn’t own an iron, and he can’t undo those wrinkles while another part of him is so excited that there’s going to be _proof_ this happened at all and it’s too much and _not enough_.

The kiss is sloppy and messy and disgusting in some ways, the absolute worst kiss of his life, and _it’s perfect because Eddie, Eddie, Eddie—_

The hand turns from a fist of cloth to a palm and there’s a gentle push against his chest and Eddie’s moving away—

_No, no, stay. Stay with me, please._

Richie chases after his lips, makes a sound that he’ll admit to in front of a thousand people if Eddie’ll just put his lips back on his—

And then Richie remembers where he is.

They’re in his shitty LA apartment, with the _Fate of the Furious_ playing at an unreasonable volume, and beneath his knees is a crushed Chinese takeout container. It’s two in the morning on a Wednesday night, and Richie was in the middle of doing a stupid Vin Diesel impression when Eddie kissed him and _oh shit._

Because Eddie’s divorce has just gone through, which is why they’re even watching these shitty car movies that neither of them are all that into. This is a celebration that Eddie is finally a free man, after months of divorce lawyers and arguing over legal shit that Richie can’t even pretend to understand and Eddie’s made a revelation a few weeks ago that maybe he’s into guys and this is everything Richie’s ever dreamed of, but maybe …

Maybe this is nothing to Eddie.

Maybe this is an experiment. Maybe this was a spur of the moment thing, and one kiss is all he’s going to get. Maybe Eddie’s come to his senses now, and realizes that maybe he likes guys, but that doesn’t mean he has to like _Richie._ He’s just safe, because risk assessment says the chances of one Richard Tozier turning down Edward Kaspbrak are absolutely fucking none.

He can salvage this. He’ll say he’s been drinking (he hasn’t). That they can forget this (it’s burned onto the back of his eyelids). It won’t make things weird (Richie’s always silently suffered around Eddie anyway). They can move past this (Richie can’t but he can pretend, he’s a fucking comedian, of course he can bullshit).

They’re pressed close together, trapped in that moment, between a frantic kiss and the edge of a cliff. Richie’ll fall off in a heart beat, (he’s accustomed to falling) but he knows that’s not what Eddie wants. So he swallows his dreams, his hopes, his foolish, boyish wishes, and he has to say it before Eddie because hearing it from his beautiful mouth might just _destroy him—_

“Sorry—”

“Do you have any condoms?”

They freeze.

Richie does some quick rethinking.

Okay. Eddie wants to do this. Richie wants to do this. But that doesn’t mean “this” means the same thing, so Richie has to keep his cards close to his vest. He can do that. He’s got enough self-hatred to rewind the clock to before that fateful encounter in the restaurant, before everything dissatisfying about his life made sense with just one glance to his side and the epiphany that _of course Eddie was missing_ and the shame that came from knowing he missed Eddie more than he maybe missed the Losers as a whole hit him like a ton of bricks and—

Okay, not thinking about it.

“Yes. I think. Er.”

“Non-expired ones?”

“Let me check.”

And Richie dashes as quickly as he can, terrified if he takes too long Eddie’ll change his mind. This is his one shot, and he can’t fuck it up so he pulls the medicine cabinet open and throws everything on the ground until he finds a box of condoms and checks the expiry date. For a second, he forgets how dates work, and he thinks he’s going to throw up, from nerves or excitement or both, he doesn’t know, but he grabs the whole box and nearly does the electric slide in his socks across the floor.

“Wow, you’re eager,” Eddie laughs at him.

_You have no idea, Eduardo._

“Alright. We’re doing this. Right?”

“This?” Eddie repeats amused.

Richie makes a crude gesture he last made in the fourth grade during recess, landing him in trouble with the lunch monitor.

“God, the fact that you just did that should’ve killed my boner instantly.”

“But …?”

Eddie grabs the condoms from Richie and checks their expiry date before taking one out. There’s a pause, and then he shoves it at Richie. “You open it.”

“You never opened a condom before?” Richie teases, but his hands are shaking and he can’t seem to figure out the stupid plastic, so he—

“If you open that fucking condom with your teeth, I’m leaving you blue balled, monster! Are you always a wreck when you fuck someone?”

“It’s not every day I get to fuck the love of my life, _sorry for being nervous_!”

…

_SHIT._

“The fucking _what?_ ”

Richie can play this off. He can turn it into a joke. He’s built his entire pay check around being able to make people laugh, so this is nothing. He opens his mouth but his tongue seems to have swollen, too big for his mouth, and now it’s been too long for him to laugh it off.

“Eddie—”

“The _fuck_ , Richie?!”

He takes a step forward. Eddie takes a step back, directly onto the fragile pieces of his heart.

“I …”

The sound of the Rock surviving a totally improbable car accident sounds way too loud and also too far away at the same time. He’s fucked up. Forget Trashmouth, Fuck-up’s more like it.

“Are you drunk?”

“Yes,” he screams too loudly even though they both know it’s not true. But it’s an out, and Richie’ll take anything he can get at this point. “So drunk. So colossally drunk, my liver fucking _hates me_.” _I hate me,_ he thinks but doesn’t say. He throws the condom away, away with his pride— if he ever had any. “How about some spaghetti? I can make that without burning down the place—”

“You just said you _love me,_ Rich.”

“Did I?”

He did.

And a part of him, a selfish part of him, is so relieved to say it aloud. To admit it to an audience, even if it was the worst possible audience he could’ve ever performed for. It’s the one part of fucking pathetic Richie Tozier that makes sense in this world, the one constant, fundamental truth of his existence. It just so happens that another fundament truth of his existence is that Edward Kaspbrak will never, ever return those sentiments.

Not that he should. Richie doesn’t want to get his messy self all over beautiful Eddie and taint him. He almost did it. Almost jumped his bones and left his disgusting marks all over him, like the dirty pig Mrs. Kaspbrak always accused him of being. But he stopped in time. In a way his accidental confession is a life saver.

“I do. I love you. Same way you love me, right? We’re Losers. We love each other. It’s part of what makes us Losers. Loving each other cause no one else will.”

Eddie’s shaking his head.

_Of course he’s shaking his head, dipshit._

“What do you want me to say, huh, Eds? I’m sorry? Then fine, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m a fuck up, I’m sorry I blurted my feelings all out on you, but you can ignore them!”

“No! No, I can’t! You just took the toothpaste out of the tube! Good luck getting that shit back in!”

“I will! I can, and I will! Eds, c’mon, it’s me. Your honour’s not in any danger, aside from that minor setback a few minutes ago! I won’t mention it again, it won’t even be a thing. What are we even talking about? That’s how much of a not-thing it is! We are totally chill here, okay, in this no-homo zone! This is a hiccup, a really funny hiccup that I’ll probably turn into a bit at some point—”

“Don’t you fucking dare!”

“Aw, camera shy, Eds?”

“Don’t call me Eds.”

This is good. The atmosphere is returning to normal. They’re fighting— well, Richie is instinctually flirting, Eds is unconsciously crushing his soul. This is the same song and dance, he’s used to this. He could do it at fourteen, and he’ll do it forty. He has to.

He offers Eddie a half-empty container of chicken chow mein.

Eddie takes it silently.

They don’t talk for the rest of the movie.

  
As the credits roll, Richie sneaks a glance at Eddie from the corner of his eye. The other man is resolutely _not_ facing him. He’s even squinting, making an effort to read the names that scroll by, or at least, doing a great job at pretending he cares.

Maybe the movie was so ridiculously dumb, Eddie’s forgotten. (Richie doubts it. He couldn’t hide his gay heart at fourteen from the bullies, never mind the inter dimensional space clown).

He’ll move out. It’s his apartment Eddie’s been squatting at, but he can have it. He was planning on getting the fucker to sign his part of the lease anyway. Richie’ll pay his share of the rent, and then he’ll fuck off to Hawaii or something, where Eddie’ll never go (the sand would get between his toes and then he’d complain about the temperature of the ocean and the increased chance for skin cancer and — Richie would love every second, but that’s not the point!)

Richie tires to reshape his entire life around keeping Eddie in it, despite his massive fuck up. He’s lived far too long without the man, and he knows what he’s like without him. Fucking miserable. A zombie. He’ll do whatever it takes to keep Edward Kaspbrak in his life, even if it means crushing his feelings with a mortar and pestle. He’ll salvage this because _he has to._

He’s got a plan that mostly involves admitting his confession, but then stressing a thousand times he and Eddie can sidestep around that gooey puddle that’s called Richie’s heart, and he’ll sweep it under the rug and this night can be forgotten and never mentioned again—

“Don’t.”

Richie opens his mouth. He closes it. He resembles a fish.

“Uh—”

“Nope.”

“I didn’t even—”

“Beep, beep, Tozier. It’s fucking late. Or early. Depends who you ask, and I’m too fucking tired to. Just. Go to bed. We’ll just … whatever.”

And Eddie stands up, turns off the TV, and goes into his room.

Richie leans back on the couch and runs his fingers through his hair. He vaguely remembers a scene from a rom-com involving groaning after hanging up a telephone, and it seemed therapeutic, but if he does that, Eddie’ll hear, so instead he takes off his glasses and presses the palms of his hands against his eyeballs until weird shapes and colours float into his vision. It’s his version of screaming, as an adult who is not allowed to throw shit in his own apartment.

Tomorrow’s going to be hell.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to say thank you for everyone who subscribed and has commented, and left kudos. I was even more hesitant to post this than I was to post my Star Trek fic, when I had seen like 5 episodes and read a shit ton of fanfic. Nothing quite tops how ignorant I am about the It fandom though, and that you're willing to take that chance means a lot to me! Hopefully this chapter is as good as the last one.

By the time the sun rises, Richie’s paced the length of his bedroom enough to wear a hole in the wood. Those hours were not spent in vain though. He’s got a plan.

It’s a brilliant plan that involves greeting Eddie with sunny side up eggs decorated with a crude joke written in ketchup, and then battering down the hatches to talk about _feelings_. He’s a grown-ass man. Hell, he’s _forty_ , he can handle rejection, even if it’s from the only person he’s ever wanted approval from.

This plan quickly goes out the window when the smoke alarm starts.

In moments, Eddie’s in the kitchen, sporting criminally short shorts, and a frown that’s too adorable for Richie to handle on how little sleep he’s gotten. Grabbing a dish towel, he begins to fan the smoke alarm.

"I thought we had an agreement. I don’t mention the cigarettes or beer and you leave the kitchen alone.”

“Top’a’mornin’ to ya, Eds!”

“Don’t cal me that.” Eddie throws the towel on the counter and props open the window. “Just give me that.” He grabs the smoking pan from Richie’s grip and throws the contents out the window. “Sit your ass down, and I’ll feed you like the toddler you secretly are.”

“Your mom didn’t seem to think so.”

There’s silence.

“Sorry, it’s a reflex—”

And then Eddie laughs. He tosses his head back and laughs, his whole body shaking with it. The words trap themselves in Richie’s throat, teeth clamping down so firmly they make an audible sound.

When Eddie finally recovers, he opens the fridge and mutters a friendly “oh, fuck you Trashmouth”, before pulling out a carton of eggs Richie had totally missed the last he checked.

As the eggs sizzle, Richie tries not to panic.

This is not the morning after he was expecting.

“Er…” He plays with the tablecloth, which is a rather nice one. Eddie insisted, said if he was going to live with him, he better treat the place like he actually expects guests at some point. Given that the Losers hang out every month now, it was a wise investment.

“So …”

“Relax, Tozier.” Eddie’s using a fork to move the egg around the pan and even with his back facing him, Richie knows he’s scrunching his nose because _who doesn’t own a spatula, fuckface?_

“I’m chill.”

“You have never once, and never will be, chill.”

“I take offence to that.”

Eddie snorts and nods towards the cupboards. “At least set the table, instead of gaping like the idiot you are.”

Richie does as told. The entire time, he waits for the bomb to drop, because surely one will. There’s no other reasonable explanation for what’s going on. He gives Eddie the plate that isn't chipped. As he sets the anxiety meds down on the placemat, he considers popping open the bottle and swallowing a few himself, lack of prescription be damned.

He doesn’t.

Once the eggs are made, Eddie serves the two of them and takes a seat.

It’s so … _domestic_.

“Did you get the newspaper?”

“Er, yeah. It’s in the living room.”

“Couldn’t bother to take it all the way to the kitchen?”

“I wanted to read it.”

“You mean you wanted to check the comics.”

“Guilty.”

“At least tell me you didn’t do the sudoku in pen again.”

Richie avoids direct eye contact.

“You _heathen_.”

“You flatter me, Eds.”

Silence falls between them again.

“So, did you hear back from Net—”

“I can’t take this!” Richie throws his fork and knife down on the table. They don’t clatter as dramatically as he’d have liked. He sits as straight as he can, considering he’s not only bent, but a sloucher, and holds his head as high as he dares. “We need to talk.”

Eddie rolls his eyes. “No we don’t.”

“What?”

“Are you deaf? We don’t have to talk about it. I’ve slept on it, and decided it doesn’t warrant talking about.” Eddie shrugs, as if they aren’t talking about Richie’s pathetic obsession with him that only Pennywise could erase from his brain, and even then, impressions of Eddie were in every single person Richie’s ever touched.

“But I said I love you.”

“I know.” Eddie keeps on eating, like Richie’s not flipping the fuck out.

“That doesn’t warrant discussion?”

Eddie frowns. “I thought you’d appreciate this. You’re the one who’s allergic to sentiment. I’m giving you an out. Take it.”

That’s true, but he’s spent the past few hours psyching himself up for this, and now Eddie’s ruining all that hard work by being so blasé about it. It’s unfathomable how they’ve ended up in this situation. The one where _Richie_ is the one who wants to talk things out, and _Eddie_ is totally cool with ignoring it.

“I love you!”

Eddie laughs.

“Don’t just laugh at me! I never laughed at _you_ when you were freaking out over that girl back in junior year—”

“Uh, yeah, you did, Rich.” Eddie cuts some of his egg, and takes another bite. “Besides, this isn’t the same thing.”

“How is this not _exactly the same thing_?”

“I kinda liked Stephanie. Or well, forcibly heterosexual me did.”

“Is it cause it’s gay?”

The brunet snorts. “No, it’s not cause it’s _gay_.” He says the word like he’s five, and he’s making such a dumb expression Richie should want to punch him but instead he just wants to taste him again. “It’s cause you don’t mean it.”

“The fuck I don’t!”

Eddie takes a long sip of milk. He’s got a small milk moustache. “I don’t know why you’re so obsessed with this—”

“Because I’m obsessed with _you_! And you … you don’t care?”

Richie’s thought about confessing. He’s envisioned so many responses to his feelings, from riding off into the sunset on a bicycle built for two (unlikely), to Eddie declaring he’d rather fuck Pennywise (also unlikely). He figures the reality is somewhere in the middle. Eddie’ll politely tell him he cherishes Richie as a friend, but can’t imagine kissing the mouth that bragged about his dick size and fucking Sonia Kaspbrak. Richie’ll try to distance himself so it’ll hurt less, but Eddie won’t let him escape, and he’ll spend forever in a hopeless state of unrequited love with a friend who can never reciprocate but cares too much to let him go completely.

He does not expect indifference.

“You _think_ you’re obsessed with me.”

Richie blinks.

And then it clicks.

“You don’t believe me.”

Eddie scrunches his nose and examines the carton of milk. “Is this expired?”

“You don’t believe I love you,” Richie repeats, dumbstruck. “Why don’t you believe me?”

Eddie finally rises to meet his eyes. What Richie sees reflected in those caramel eyes is heartbreaking. “What’s there to love?”

Richie’s head is spinning.

What’s there to love? What _isn’t_ there to love?

“I—”

Eddie’s phone goes off. He glances down at the screen. “It’s work. Talk later, Rich?”

Richie knows they won’t.

Richie’s denial skills are so profound, he could deny his homosexuality even with three fingers up his ass, while watching gay porn. The foundation of his comedic career is his avoidance of topics that make him uncomfortable through humour. He practices dumb accents in the mirror just to distract people from whatever thing they were talking about that made him want to crawl out of his skin. Richie has never been brave a day in his life, save for the seconds it took him to carve his soul into the Kissing Bridge. He’s in a confrontation mood _now_ , but that’ll pass. He knows himself well enough that he can tell by three o’clock, he’ll have convinced himself this is okay and Eddie is totally right.

Eddie doesn’t avoid things the same way Richie does, but he’ll make up so many excuses. He’s got work, he’s got to figure out what’s still his since the divorce, he’s reorganizing his sock drawer. Anything. The man always has a reason he can’t, not yet. He’s waiting for something, but for what is anyone’s guess. Richie doubts even he knows.

They won’t talk about Richie’s feelings again. But they _will_ talk about Eddie’s.

Because Richie can live in constant agony over a love unreciprocated— it’s not like that wasn’t his plan in the first place— but if Eddie thinks he can get away with casually shitting on himself like that, he’s got another thing coming.

Eddie may never love Richie, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t love himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only heathens do sudoku in pen, ESPECIALLY if they don't fully understand how to play sudoku.
> 
> Also of note: I know people like to say Richie's a service top, and I'm not saying he's not, but like versatile couples, you know? So yeah, I put a line about him fingering himself. What you gonna do about it?


	3. Chapter 3

_how to convince someone they are beautiful_

_how do you tell someone they are attractive_

_how do you tell someone they are amazing_

_how to make my friend believe he deserves love_

The internet has changed a lot since 1989, but one look at the search results tells Richie that its only real use is porn.

When the search box starts suggesting: “ _i deserve to find love_ ”, he decides Yahoo! Answers can go fuck itself, he'll solve his own problem. Richie's had to face challenges long before the world wide web, and he's managed just fine without it. Though, a close examination of those incidents reveal he's just very good at sweeping things under the rug and ignoring the resulting mountain.

He's got a document open, which is titled _Untitled 69_ , because it makes him snicker. Inside, he's supposed to be writing potential bits for the potential Netflix special his agent is supposed to land him. Even though it's been months since the whole fucking off to Derry incident, he still doubts the studio wants to take a risk on him. He's a semi-famous man who is only sometimes funny trying to make a comeback by completely changing the way he does his sets. He wouldn't take a chance on him, even if he was part of ABBA.

The document is empty, which reveals how much is going on in his brain at the moment.

_New plan._

Richie writes:

_Why I Love Eddie_

There. Now it's time to start thinking up compliments. Simple ones, the type of stuff that doesn't scream _Hi I'm desperately in love with you, please ignore the title of this list_. All above board, no homo stuff.

He comes up somewhat blank.

What even _is_ Eddie?

Part of Richie thinks that's such a dumb as shit question. Eddie is Eddie, enough said. He's never had to think about it before. No time has gone into what draws him to Eddie Kaspbrak, other than the fact that Eddie is himself. But what does that even mean?

Eddie's ... well, to start, he's cute.

He was a cute kid, and he's a cute adult. And Richie means like Hello Kitty cute. Like there must be some sort of formula that's allowed Eddie to get all the cute genes, because as much as Richie teased, Mrs. Kaspbrak was not much to look at. Even as an adult he's cute in the same _I want to pinch your cheeks_ way, which doesn't make much sense, but leave it to Edward to be confusing in his attractiveness.

Richie's used the word cute to describe Eddie since before he can remember. If he calls him cute now, he'll probably get a sneer. He was genuine each time, but it's always easier to put that slight sneer in his voice, make himself sound just a little meaner than he means to be. Certainly kept the Losers from catching on. Or maybe they all knew, and Eddie was the only one who remained oblivious.

He should text them later to find out.

Eddie's also really handsome. Richie wishes he could tell him that. Do guys do that? Just turn to each other and go all “you're real handsome today, dude”? Maybe normal, non-traumatized adults do that, but Richie can't. Also, he doubts real men talk about their feelings either. Fuck, he hates the gendered socialization he was forced to take part in.

Eddie is ... well, he's pretty. There's really no other word for those eyes of his. He knows Eddie would argue about how brown is the most common eye colour in North America, but Eddie makes brown look _good_. They don't look all that brown anyway. They remind Richie of chocolate, and caramel, and a really cool marble he had as a kid. Not dull at all. But guys don't just go around calling each other pretty.

Eddie's hot. Especially in those shorts. The ones that haunt his wet dreams. He has a complicated relationship with those shorts, and all others shorts Eddie wears because the shorts from that summer no longer fit him (if they ever did), but he's got new shorts that have become the new Shorts. He sees them and he sighs, not because he doesn't love them, but because he's low-key tired of his brain short-circuiting and being completely useless whenever Eddie parades around in them. It's a silent surrender to the shorts. He can never figure out if he's an ass or leg man when Eddie wears them. He figures he's both, because both are fucking drool worthy on one Edward Kaspbrak.

Eddie is also beautiful. Really, really beautiful. And it's not because of his hair, or his eyes, or his face, or the shape of his nose. Well, maybe a little. It's about the crease in his forehead when he gets stuck doing the New York Times crossword. It's his need to double lock his car door. It's his OCD tendency to make sure the toilet paper is facing a certain way when he changes a roll. It's the way he physically pats down his body in search of his own keys, and his small cry of triumph when he finds them.

Maybe Richie's delusional and none of those things are what make Eddie beautiful, but they matter to him. (Richie's not delusional, he's in love. It's worse, in some ways.)

Along with all these things, Eddie is also unbearably sexy.

It's not fair. Honestly, it has to be a literal _crime_ for Eddie to wander around in shorts as short as he does. He looks good in clothes that are too big for him, or too small for him. He gets this look in his eye when he's winning a conversation that goes straight to Richie's dick, and always leads to awkward sitting positions. A confident Eddie is a force to be reckoned with, and also Richie's sexual kryptonite.

All the same Richie isn't _that_ shallow. There are plenty of things he loves about Edward Kaspbrak that have nothing to do with his appearance, otherwise he would've just said “dude, I have a massive hard-on for you like, all the time”.

No, it's because Eddie has to go and be a _good person_ on top of everything else.

Ugh. Richie can't stand it.

Good sounds like such a stupid word, but it's what he is. Really and truly good. It's one of those words people use too much that they kind of forget what it means without intending to. Good is a compliment, and it's a very underrated one. Eddie is _good_ to his _core_ , and every day Richie is glad he has some goodness in his life, even if that goodness is giving him the middle finger about leaving his laundry on the floor again.

Eddie is _nice_. That's another word people underrate. The thing is people use the word nice so ironically these days, Richie's quite sure no one really knows what it means. It sounds so ... _lame_ , but Eddie is the nicest guy Richie knows. Trashmouth may have traded his heart for comedy gold, but Eddie's got sincerity engraved in his soul. Richie would've given up on society as a whole if it weren't for the genuine wonder that is Eddie Kaspbrak.

Eddie's also just so smart. His job involves working with _numbers_ for crying aloud. Richie wasn't exactly an idiot back in school, but he struggled with trig the same way everyone did, and Eddie knows _calculus_. It's kinda sexy, if Richie's being frank. And also unfair how Eddie always beats him at Jeopardy.

Eddie is _clever_ , which is rare. You can hardly ever find someone both smart and clever. They sound the same, but they are not. Richie knows this, the same way he knows Ben and Beverly are probably going to be announcing their engagement in three months, latest.

The boy is _witty_. He's got Richie in stitches half the time, and he's hardly trying. Eddie _gets_ him. Gets his humour, gets his brand. He plays into it, and acts out sometimes just for the sake of a bit. He can deadpan like nobody's business, and his timing is _masterful_.

He's got a laugh that could keep Richie alive for some odd thousand years, just from knowing he was the cause.

His _smile_ should come with a warning sign.

That thing he does, where he looks to the side and bites his lip to try and stop himself from grinning is the most innocent and adorable thing Richie's ever seen, and half the reason he wants to stick his tongue down his throat.

He could go on and on.

Still, every time he imagines saying those words to Eddie ( _you look cute today, Eds_ , _you're so smart_ , _you should smile more, you look nice that way_ ), it all sounds phoney and fake. Compliments just seem _forced_ to him. He's not sure if it's because he's a cynical asshole who built his career on self-deprecating humour and an inability to mature, but he's not comfortable with just _saying nice things_.

Then he remembers the look in Eddie's eyes this morning, and the frank way he said “What's there to love?” and suddenly, no amount of awkwardness can stop Richie from telling Eddie that he loves the way he whistles while channel surfing.

That's when he hears Eddie's footsteps outside the door. There's a muted cuss as he tries to jam the key into the lock.

Richie strengthens his resolve, and tries his best not to vomit.

_Showtime._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While writing this, I had an epiphany about compliments and the fact that I find it REALLY weird to compliment people while sounding sincere, and also that I think when people compliment me, on the rare occasion it happens, I think they're full of shit. I spoke to a friend about it. I think society has lost its ability to be sincere. They think it depends on the type of people you surround yourself with/social factors, not society as a whole. What do you think?
> 
> By the way, I did a genuine Google dive, and laughed when Google told me I deserve love.


	4. Chapter 4

By the time Eddie gets back from work, he’s in a bad mood. Richie knew he’d be. Eddie hates Thursdays. Wednesday is a halfway point, but by Thursday you just wish it was Friday.

It’s when Eddie stomps his feet on the welcome mat to clean his boots of dirt that he realizes just how bad of a day he’s had.

“I’m back.”

“No shit. I was expecting a little _fee, fie, foe,_ action. Gotta say, I'm disappointed.”

“Not in the mood, Richie.”

Richie turns from his position on the couch. He's dug himself into a rather strange YouTube hole which will probably amuse the FBI agent who can undoubtedly see his watch history.

Eddie really does look worn down. The bags under his eyes have not gotten better, though Richie knows well enough that nights of staying up and talking to divorce lawyers can't be reversed with one _Fast & Furious _marathon. Maybe if they threw Michael Bay in there— but no, that's not the point.

A totally useless gay part of him brain begins moaning about how attractive Eddie can still be, even when it seems he's been run over by a steamroller.

“How was work?”

Eddie stops in the middle of hanging up his coat. “Huh?”

“How was work?” Richie repeats. He considers trying to keep eye contact, a thing he's been told he doesn't do nearly enough, but he can't guarantee it won't just turn into him staring at how attractive Eddie is in his work getup, so he makes sure his eyes flit over to his screen.

“Why do you care?”

“You're my best bro, course I care.”

Eddie doesn't even hesitate to snap back, which tells Richie everything he needs to know about his feelings, and the supposed talk they're gonna have about it. It won't be happening. “Uh, no you don't.”

“Uh, yeah, I do.”

“No, I _know_ you, Richie. You couldn't give a shit.”

“Says who?”

“Says me!”

“Nice to meet you, Me, I'm Richard, but everyone calls me Richie—”

“I can't believe your career hinges on your ability to make others laugh. Wait, no. Everything's falling into place now.” Eddie places his boots nicely on the welcome mat, off to the side so that Richie won't trip over them when he inevitably complains about the lack of beer in the fridge and goes to the convenience store.

“You got something to say, Eds?”

“You haven't asked me a single question about my job since I started working at the LA branch.”

Richie wrinkles his nose. “That doesn't sound right.”

“I'd remember if you actually bothered to give a shit about my career,” Eddie says, and Richie just _knows_ if he looks up from his laptop, the man'll be standing over him with his hands on his sexy hips and that's _not fair_ , Richie is a weak, weak man. “What brought this on? Has writing your own material finally fried your brain?”

Richie snorts, and starts looking at images of _cats in teacups_. He may take it back. The internet is good for porn, and cats. “See if I ever ask again.”

He can _feel_ when Eddie moves away from the couch and into the kitchen. That's how powerful Kaspbrak energy is. He comes back a few minutes later with a cup of coffee.

They sit in silence for a bit until—

“It was fine. Work, I mean.”

“Oh, Eduardo. You should know better than to bullshit the bullshitter.” Richie dares to look over his laptop at his roommate and love of his life. He's angrily putting sweetener into his mug, and it's possibly the most adorable thing Richie's ever seen in his Goddamned life.

“What do you want me to say? That it was horrible?”

“I mean, if it was, then yeah. Say whatever you want, as long as it's honest.”

“It's not like you can do anything about it.”

“I could listen,” Richie offers hesitantly.

Eddie squints at him. “Are you dying?”

“What?”

“Were you diagnosed with cancer while I was away? I told you, those cigarettes are leading you to an early grave. What is it? Stage three? Stage _four_?”

“I don't have cancer!” Richie pokes Eddie with his leg to try and get him to let it go. “You're just a worry-wart. I heard talking shit out is like, therapeutic, or something. Supposedly.”

“I have a therapist for that, thanks.”

“Do you ever actually see him?”

Eddie is quiet.

“C'mon, you're traumatized. You should see someone about it.”

“ _You're_ traumatized. Why don't _you_ see someone about it?”

Richie rolls his eyes. “I'm less traumatized. You're the one who tried to fuck your problems away by marrying a literal stand-in for your obsessive, controlling mother.” The dark haired man throws a throw pillow (courtesy of a shopping trip with Eddie) at his friend. “Come to think of it, maybe I should admit now that I had a three-way with Myra and your mom.”

“Richie!”

“Don't worry, Myra couldn't compete with ol' Sonia Kaspbrak. She's still number one in my heart.”

“You're disgusting, Richie.”

“Wonder what that says about you. Hanging out with the trash man.”

They fall into silence.

It's awkward, and tense, but in some ways, Richie likes it. It feels ... _normal_. Feels like he's finally doing something normal people his age do. Chat about work, and pester each other with dumb problems. This feels ... good. Weirdly good.

He wonders when it got weird to ask about people's days. He can remember Monday mornings in school, slinging an arm around Eddie's shoulder and being shrugged off, until Bill or Stan let him lean on them as though they were curing him of his non-existent scoliosis. They'd talk shit and one of the first genuine words out of their mouth was “what'd you do this weekend?”.

When did that stop being normal?

Did he just _stop being human_ after the whole Pennywise incident?

Richie frowns. That's a sad hole to go down, and not a crisis he wants to have in Eddie's presence. A part of him knows logically, Eddie is the person _least_ likely to judge him about it, especially since Eddie's always been paranoid, but still. Just cause he's given up on Eddie ever loving him, doesn't mean he wants to throw away _all_ of his remaining dignity.

Richie's been doing a lot of thinking. And yes, it has been painful, but not in the way Beverly Marsh means when she teases him about it in his head. He's been a hopeless case for Eddie since he first set eyes on the boy, and quite frankly, he's _still_ hopeless. All the same, if he wants their relationship to continue without being weird, he's gotta accept that Eddie isn't going to love him. He has to stop wishing for it, stop hoping for it.

Stop reading into the way Eddie leaves him post-it notes on the fridge to remind him to get more milk.

Forget the warmth in his stomach when an alarm goes off on his phone to remind him to eat lunch that Eddie has unquestionably set.

He has to rewire his brain to accept that his temporary tent in the Friend-Zone should be traded in for a permanent residence. Mortgage and all.

Richie kinda wishes he could explain it properly to all those people who tell him to move the fuck on. What they don't understand is that there is _no getting over Eddie Kaspbrak_. Even when he didn't remember him, he was still there. Every date was wrong, something was off, _missing_ and it all fell into place at the Jade Orient.

If twenty-seven years of space clown induced amnesia couldn't erase Eddie from Richie's heart, nothing can.

Eddie clears his throat.

“So ... we're good, yeah?”

“Good?”

“You know.” Eddie leans with his shoulder guiding him, which is dumb as fuck, and somehow looks oh so innocent as well as fucked up. “About this morning.”

“Yeah, we're good.”

As if Richie could live with himself if he truly did ruin the best relationship he's ever had over something as insignificant as an all-consuming love for the man across from him.

Eddie nods firmly. “Right. Cool. So we agree, then?”

“Agree about what?”

“That you were confused. About the whole ... loving me, schtick.”

“Loving you schtick?” Richie repeats. “Do you hear yourself?”

“What else do you want me to call it?”

“I dunno, flattering? I mean, I know I'm not a great catch, but still. It's nice to know you're appreciated.” Richie shifts on the couch, suddenly feeling like the laid out position is opening him up like a target. He tries to curl into himself a bit, like that'll stop the emotional hits he's taking.

“What? But you didn't mean it.”

“Says you.”

“Richie, we're not doing this.”

“You're right, we're not. Because you did not just propose the absolutely ridiculous idea that I don't know my own mind.” He hopes he sounds firm. It's hard to say shit about trusting himself when he knows he's been robbed of over half of his life, and he's still trying to figure out who he is. “I find it _insulting_ , that you don't trust me to know myself.”

“I just don't think you can be objective—”

“It's _love_ , there's nothing objective to talk about!” Richie runs his hands over his face. “Look, Eds, you don't ... you're not all that anxious to climb the gangly tree that I am, I get that. That's cool. I'm not asking for that. But like, you know. I _do_ love you. So like, accept it, dipshit.”

“See, this is what I'm talking about!” Eddie says, as if everything makes perfect sense.

“What? What am I doing?”

“You don't just call people you love dipshits, dipshit!”

“Well, right back at you.” Richie takes the coffee mug from Eddie's hands which have started trembling, not that the nervous wreck has noticed. He places it carefully on the coaster which Eddie bought, and is still appalled by Richie's lack of use. “Listen to me, Eddie. Edward. You married your fucking _mother_. I think I know a bit more about love than you do.

“Besides, not everyone loves the same. If I call you a dipshit, and I will, because you are one, that doesn't discredit me when I say I love you. It's cool, we can keep living as we are, with you knowing that I draw our names in hearts and shit, and you not wanting that. It's like something out of a soap opera. Do you know why they call them soap operas? I've always wanted to know.”

Eddie does not look convinced.

“It's not like you'd believe me more if I showered you with roses. You'd probably think this was _Invasion of the Body Snatchers_. Fuck, I asked how your day was, and you thought I had _cancer_. Why is this so weird?”

“Because you're being ... _nice_ to me!”

Richie sits back, as if forcefully pushed by the words. “Eds ... you think asking how your day was is _nice_? Your bar is way too low.”

“Whatever, Trashmouth. Just ... whatever. You love me, fine.”

Richie knows he doesn't believe a word he's saying He's gonna change that. But Rome wasn't built in a day, so he drops it and heads to the kitchen. There's a single six pack left over, and Richie's willing to do a quick run to the 7-11.

“C'mon. I'm getting you wasted.”

“I have work to get done.”

“You _just_ got back from work,” Richie says. “I think you deserve a _little_ bit of a break.”

“Your idea of a break involves way too much alcohol.”

“There's no such thing as too much alcohol.”

“Yes, there is Richie. It's called alcohol poisoning.”

“Boo!” Richie frowns. “You're no fun.” He holds out a bottle of beer, like a peace offering. “One sip? Just one? You know you want to. It's not like Myra let you get skunk drunk during your ... how long were you married to that bitch? Enjoy your single life! Get drunk on a Thursday!”

“That's what college is for.”

“I bet you didn't get hammered on school nights. You gotta make up for that. C'mon, I'll start.” Richie pops open the bottle and takes a long gulp. He lets out an exaggerated “ _ah_ ” and holds out the bottle again. “Or are you chicken, Kaspbrak?”

Eddie glares at him. “That's not gonna work on me, Tozier.”

“You're right. You're right.” Richie holds up his hands in defeat, and mock-surrender. Then he reaches over Eddie and pours the beer into his coffee mug. “Whoops!”

Eddie rolls his eyes. “I can just pour this down the sink.”

“And waste a perfect Irish brew?”

“Richie—”

“Fine. Just think of the starving kids in Africa as you pour that bean juice into the sink. It’s their tears. You're putting African children's tears down the drain.”

“Sometimes I wonder if you just like to hear yourself talk.” Eddie takes a tiny sip of his coffee, to Richie's great joy and whooping cheer. “Christ, how are you forty?”

“Body's old, mind's still young.”

They clink beer bottle to coffee mug and Richie's only got one thought in his mind: _Prepare yourself, I'm gonna love the shit out of you, Edward Kaspbrak for the both of us until you can see it for yourself._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you're curious, I myself do not know where the fuck this is going.  
> Also: I sit down to write and oh, my finger slipped, here's an existential crisis.  
> And lastly, I decided Eddie has a prosthetic arm. But it's a Winter Soldier/FMA metal arm, because I did some research on prosthetics and I don't know shit? But I think it's important that it's there and acknowledged. I wrote a whole chapter about it, which will turn up later, but yeah ... he's handicapped! Let me just give a quick run down about what's up with Spaghetti:  
> He's got anxiety (anxiety meds mentioned in chap 2)  
> He has asthma   
> He has a reasonable amount of allergies (like 1 or 2)  
> He has a scar on his face  
> He has a badass metal arm  
> He has PTSD and serious self-esteem issues  
> Finally, Richie is ... Richie. He hates himself. He loves Eddie. What else is new? And all the trauma and shit that comes with it.   
> Do I wanna do a sexuality crisis? No. Just a "I hate myself, I'm a piece of trash, he'll never love me" crisis. That's what to expect.  
> If you've got a problem with a handicapped Eddie, fuck off.


	5. Chapter 5

Eddie has escaped a hypochondriac, controlling mother, wiggled his way out of his marriage with the carbon copy of said abusive mother, and he's fucking killed a space clown, not once, but _twice_ , and yet some dork in coke bottle glasses is gonna do him in. It's sort of poetic, in all honesty.

Richie Tozier walks to the mailbox barefoot, and licks his knife clean of peanut butter. He never remembers to put the shower curtain _inside_ the shower, and writes irritating notes in the foggy mirror. He drinks Red Bull _right next to his computer_ , and sometimes _gargles his coffee_. Richie rinses out glasses without using soap, and calls it a day. He never cleans his glasses, and he loves to stick his finger into whatever Eddie is making for dinner to taste it, _without washing his hands_.

Sonia Kaspbrak fed Eddie a lot of shit, but she was right about one thing.

 _That Tozier boy is dirty_.

Richard “Trashmouth” Tozier is a fucking mess, and Eddie loves him so much.

Which is why when his wife's gaze lingered just a bit too long on his new arm, and she'd cradle his face just so, covering the scar with her thumb, he decided enough was enough and rather than escape to any of his other five newfound friends he had re-discovered, he hopped on a plane to LA, and found himself outside Richie's apartment building, waiting to run into _someone_ who would let him into the building.

It's been months since Richie opened his doors to Eddie, and things have been good.

Living with someone does not mean you see them constantly, as marriage has taught him. He sees Richie more in the evenings, and the man's respectful enough that if Eddie's got shit to do, he won't bother him. Most of the time. They sometimes run into each other in the mornings, and occasionally, Richie'll force him to take a break and watch some stupid show like _Breaking Bad_ (Eddie knows his opinion is controversial, he just doesn't give a shit. He's spent his entire life caring so Goddamn much what others thought).

Living with Richie has been manageable.

And then the Kiss happened.

Eddie has spank bank material to last him several lifetimes, thank you very much. Though it's not like he's touched himself much since the Incident. Since his right arm's flesh was ripped away and replaced with cool, unfeeling metal.

And then Richie ... Richie looks him dead in the eyes and says he loves him.

He's gone for this boy.

For Richie Tozier, who wears mismatched socks on purpose. For the man who devoted an entire weekend to recreating Rick Astley's _Never Gonna Give You Up_ music video, and forced Eddie to film it. This dork who cried watching _Big Fish_ , and insisted his eyes were sweating. He's an idiot for the doofus who asks for the kid's menu at restaurants because _it's been so long since I've coloured, Eds_.

Edward Kaspbrak is totally _stupid_ over Richie.

And for a second, for one, wonderful second last night, he believed Richie was stupid over him too.

Then he comes to his senses.

Guys like Eddie don't get to be with men like Richie.

He wakes up the next morning and tries to shrug it off but Richie, doing a total 180, and obliterating _every_ pre-conceived notion Eddie's had about his best friend and his non-confrontational attitude, won't let it go. He gets to escape thanks to work, and by the time the day's over, he's ready to pretend nothing happened.

Then Richie goes and is all _nice to him_ and shit, and Eddie's head is spinning.

Christ. He never catches a fucking break, does he?

They talk about nothing, shooting the shit while Richie smiles at him with that shit-eating grin of his that's as boyish as it was at thirteen and Eddie figures the only way he convinced himself he was straight during the last twenty-seven years was because he had never seen Richie smile like that.

Richie downs more alcohol than is smart on a Thursday night, and Eddie eventually nurses a bottle or two once his coffee is down.

They talk a lot, but they don't _say_ anything.

There's nothing important being said, nothing worth remembering really, but each word is cherished. Eddie has spent far too long without this man in his life, and his presence will never be taken for granted again.

Richie's doing a Voice, a better, but not much better, version of the British guy he seemed so set on acing back when they were younger. You'd think after so many years, he'd have gotten better, but the only difference is now Eddie _knows_ Richie's heard a British person speak, and still can't quite manage it.

It hurts.

Eddie is familiar with heartbreak.

There's the confused anger at being lied to your whole life. Being told you're fragile and delicate, and then learning there's not a damn thing wrong with you. That all that suffocating care-taking that's been done out of love for you is just a manipulation, a way to keep you under someone else's thumb. That _family_ has betrayed you.

There's the sadness at having to leave your friends behind for the first time.

The ache of longing for something you've never had. Wishing you had _known_ , had remembered them. The realization that you've been dissatisfied your entire life, and all you've been missing is _friends_. The type of friends that people write books about, the type of friends that you just thought you weren't destined to have, and the realization that not only did you have them, but you had then forgotten them.

There's the quiet pain of realizing that you can't stay together forever, and everyone has built a life without each other, and though they will keep in touch, they won't be _there_ the way you want them. That you don't trust yourself to let them out of your sight, lest you forget them again, and no amount of placating words can stop the bile from rising in your throat because you _can't lose them again_.

There's the agony of moving out of your shared bedroom with your wife and sleeping like a stranger in your own home, unable to comprehend how you just let yourself fall back into this life that makes you _miserable_.

And then there's the heartache of loving Richie Tozier.

It's the sweetest pain Eddie's ever known.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you think I know where this is going? The answer is no. I do not. At ALL. If this reads awkwardly, it's cause it is awkward and I didn't know how to fix it. I don't even know if I have an updating schedule. THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO BE A PWP, but I'm a slut for slow burn and pining and improving yourself and growing as a person so ...


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I figured out what I wanted to cover with this story, but because I didn't start it with a plan, it's kinda all over the place? So the pacing is gonna be weird. ALSO YAY FOR HANDICAPPED REPRESENTATION! And also, sorry you have to read my smut ... I rarely write it, mostly because I find myself be really shitty at it. (Also this happens on Friday night, so takes place the day after the last chapter ended.)

Being paranoid and in love with a roommate who rarely leaves the house makes for a very spastic masturbating schedule.

In some ways, Eddie is quite sure he hasn't been this pent up since he first discovered that touching his dick did certain _things_ to him. Course, back then, jerking off was a strange mix of shame and rebellion. Sitting on his bed with a Kleenex box, thinking _exclusively_ of Richie, as a quiet _fuck you_ to one Sonia Kaspbrak. The quiet after he orgasmed, biting his lip so hard, it bled, catching his breath and remembering that it's not only spite that has him stroking himself to his best friend, but because those curls and that laugh do _something to his stomach_ , a mixture of pleasure and shame at being _dirty._ That he grew up during the _height_ of the AIDs crisis really did not help matters.

Richie is going out to see a movie with one of the few college friends he actually still cares about (his words, not Eddie's), and plans to be gone at least till 1 in the morning.

It's really creepy, if Eddie thinks about it enough, that he organizes his beating times around Richie's schedule, but walls are thin and Eddie will face another demonic clown before he lets Richie walks in on him as he babbles about the comedian's dick.

He lays on his bed, the lights relatively low, shirt off, listening to the cars outside.

He's been like this for over half an hour.

Richie left at seven to catch dinner before going to see some profane comedy that probably isn't all that great (it's not good, Eddie's checked the reviews). He's all prepared, with a towel at the ready, lotion lying on the comforter, and a bottle of chilled water on the bedside table.

He's scared.

Fuck, he's forty, and he's scared to touch himself.

Maybe part of it is because of the new hand. It's _weird_ to touch himself with metal. He makes an effort not to touch any part of his body directly with it, and if he averts his gaze when brushing his teeth, that's his own business.

If he's being honest, it's probably because Eddie's always had a weird relationship with sex.

It didn't interest him all that much as a teen. Richie made gross remarks, and Eddie made his own back, but they didn't hold weight. They were empty, the same way Richie's jokes about banging his mom were more of a reflex than an actual burn.

Then he got married, and it was like he _had_ to have sex with his wife. She was a companion, a friend, at best. He married her because it felt natural to. Like this was where his life was headed. They didn't have a romantic proposal story, just a casual conversation over dinner where they weighed the pros and cons of tax breaks. They had sex maybe once a month, and while Eddie didn't _hate it_ , he doubted she enjoyed it much more than he did.

Masturbating in his own house, with his own wife, was also a no-go. Maybe he's pent up because he's _always_ been pent up. He's too self-conscious to just take himself in hand during a shower, or wake up with a hard on and follow through with his morning wood. Nothing can be spontaneous, lest ... _something_.

Part of Eddie isn't even sure what he's scared of. He's not sure what would be _that_ bad about having someone know he jerked off. Everyone does it, right? Except for the asexuals. Eddie did spend some time thinking he was asexual, and then the Jade Orient happened and his brain suddenly remembered wanting Richie's big hands on him, even after they were covered in melted ice cream because he was too busy talking to bother with his summer time treat.

So, not asexual. Richie-sexual.

He literally couldn't look himself in the mirror after having that realization for _months_.

 _Just do it_ , Eddie tells himself. Richie can bar hop like he's in a frat, regardless of age, but pressumably he's gonna come back at _some point_ , so he may as well get it over with.

_In. Out. In. Out._

Eddie's hand sneaks underneath his boxers, and—

_Shit that’s cold._

Richie came out of that crumbled house with nothing but a few scars that no one can see unless he's just walked out of the shower (a thing Eddie has never seen, because the consequences of seeing a wet, naked Richie ... he can't even begin to guess how many ways that can go wrong). Eddie on the other hand ... well, Eddie doesn't have a hand, for starters.

Maybe if he just switches his hand—

No. That's dumb. That's like giving in. That's like letting It win, even in death.

So Eddie lets his metallic arm go underneath his boxers again, and grips himself. It's not unpleasant, but a part of his body recoils in shock at the temperature difference. It feels different from before, and he's not sure if he can even focus on trying to climax when he's so fixated on the way his silver fingers look in contrast to his pale skin.

_Don't think about it. Just don't think about it._

But it's hard not to, when he can literally _feel the difference_.

All he can think about is Myra. Myra's gaze fixating on his arm when he wore short sleeved shirts, the way she brought up seeing a doctor for surgery to get rid of that nasty scar on his face. The way, as much as she loved to fuss over him, she couldn't stand to take him to his physiotherapy sessions. The way she refused to touch him on one side. How she'd flinch if he reached for her with his right arm.

_“You went away,” Myra said. “You went away for some reunion, and now you're back and you're ... you're not you. You're ...”_

Broken.

The word she hadn't said, but thought. Had projected loudly with the spaces in the bed she left, and the quiet resentment she held for his changes. She mourned for him, when he came back from Derry. Mourned for the Eddie she had loved, the one who was whole, the one who—

The one who was miserable.

The one who had no spine. The one who let himself be shoved around. The one who calculated risks before choosing a new brand of toothpaste.

She didn't want him to be different. She wanted him to let her take care of him. The old him. The one who didn't have friends, who walked through life like a ghost in a shell. Myra would take care of him in sickness, but not in health. And only if he was whole.

Ironically, now without his right arm, Eddie feels more whole than he did in almost three decades.

He lost some of himself in Derry, but he _gained—_ oh, how he _gained_.

To be unable to find pleasure anymore ... that would be like letting Myra win. That would be admitting defeat. Confessing to being broken.

Eddie refuses to be as helpless as Myra made him feel.

He closes his eyes and thinks of Richie. He thinks of that night, when he felt Richie's chest so close to his own, felt his breath against his lips. Remembers the taste of cigarettes and soy sauce, and something so indescribably _Richie_. He remembers the pressure against his body, the smell of his clothes, the feel of the fabric of his stupid fucking shirt that had some shitty dad joke on it. He remembers the press of the glasses against his nose, crushed between them.

His body's hot all over again, and he's moving his hand without thinking about it. He can hear Richie in his mind, rambling, the way he always does, because of course he'd be a mouthful, even when his mouth should be occupied.

 _“Yeah, just like that, Eds,”_ he says in his imagination. _“Do you have any idea how hard you make me? Shit, you're killing me.”_ He imagines those curls, frenzied and wild, thinks about the stubble against his skin, the way it tickled and also excited.

_“Is it good for you, huh, Eds? Do I make you feel good?”_

Something's climbing inside of him, his hips are moving against his own accord, his mouth is hanging open and sounds are coming out. A part of him distantly wonders if he's being loud, if he should be quiet, but all he can really focus on is Imaginary Richie.

_“Are you gonna cum for me? Huh? Gonna fucking cum so good for me?”_

Eddie makes a keening sound, his back arches. He's almost there, he can barely breathe, and Richie's hands are so big on him, so rough but so gentle at the same time. Treats him just the way he wants. He's not fragile, not with Richie. Not _to Richie_. The man knows he isn't some porcelain doll, and he manhandles him, caging him in with his much larger frame.

 _“Look at me,”_ Imaginary Richie says. Behind Eddie's eyelids, Richie's looking him dead in the eye with his stupid glasses, and that soft smile that does things to him. _“Hey, look at me, Eds. I got you. I got you. You can let go. Cum for me, beautiful. I wanna see you lose control. Wanna see you come undone.”_

At some point, Eddie uncapped the lube and now he's fucking into his hand, and he's _so close_ , but it's not enough yet—

_“Fuck, you're so needy. So desperate for me. So good for me. Such a good boy, Eddie. So pretty. You've always been so fucking pretty, you know that? Fuck, I love you.”_

Eddie cums.

He may also black out a little bit.

When he comes to, his stomach is sticky and his mouth is dry, and his head is spinning and he's alone.

He's alone, and Richie doesn't look at him that way, doesn't think about him like that. Richie's confused, but oh how much Eddie wants to believe him. Wants to take that leap, and fall into his arms. To _enjoy_ something for once in his life.

But when Richie leaves ... when he eventually comes to his senses, then Eddie really will be broken.

So he cleans up after himself and pretends the wetness in his eyes is just sweat, taking a leaf out of Richie's book of shitty excuses.

He pretends he's asleep when Richie comes stumbling in at three, giggling and loudly whispering to himself. Eddie hugs a pillow to his chest, and curls into himself when Richie stops outside his bedroom door.

“You're probs asleep now, but I figured I'd say good night. So ... night. See ya in the morning, Spaghetti. Love ya.”

Eddie wishes he was asleep. Wishes Richie didn't sound so genuine. Wishes he could just forget the taste of him. The way he moaned his name in between kisses on that shitty couch. Eddie wishes he could live in that moment for all eternity.

But most of all, Eddie wishes he was the type of person Richie could love.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's just pretend it's Saturday and Eddie's super eager to avoid Richie, yeah? Fuck, I don't know what this timeline is.  
> Also, I don't have enough words for how much I respect Bev, but I can't write for shit.

“What the fuck, Kaspbrak?”

Eddie’s on his lunch break, secluded in the stairwell of a neglected part of the office. He’s made himself a rather decent sandwich, in his own fairly humble opinion, and is doing a very good job at ignoring the whole sadsturbating to his roommate thing when Beverly Marsh calls him and greets him with _that_.

“Hello to you too.”

“Hey, dipshit,” the redhead greets, “and I reiterate, _what the fuck, Kaspbrak_?”

Eddie feels this is the type of conversation he ought to put his sandwich down for. “Can you start at the beginning?”

“I got a call from Richie last night. He was crying.”

“Er—”

“He was also drunk. _Very_ drunk. I don’t think he meant to call me. He may have butt-dialled me, but it was like, two in the morning, and I was already awake so I heard him out. If _any_ of his drunk ramblings are true, I may just have to lynch you, Edward Kaspbrak.”

“Um—”

“He _said_ that he told you he loved you. And that you, you little sad piece of shit, had the audacity to tell him he was _wrong_.”

“Well, I—”

“I’m not finished!” Beverly breathes heavily into the phone, and Eddie knows better than to interrupt her. “You’re lucky I still have _some_ respect for you and am calling when you’re not in the middle of getting off to fucking micromorts, so that none of your coworker friends have to hear me rat out your pathetic, sorry ass! How _dare_ you do that to Richie? Do you have any fucking idea what that boy’s gone through? Just cause you’ve got some metal as an arm, does _not_ mean you get to be robotic towards his emotions!”

Eddie waits.

Beverly breathes in deeply, then lets it out.

“Okay, I’m finished now.”

“Right.” Eddie’s frantically trying to figure out what exactly Beverly is trying to tell him since his brain partly shut off the moment he realized _mad woman is yelling at me_. The first thing he latches onto is— “As someone who works in _insurance_ , micromorts aren’t exactly the sort of thing I—”

“Explain yourself, Edward.”

Eddie runs a hand over his face. “Okay. Right. So. Richie called you. Are you sure he was crying? Richie doesn’t … he’s not much of a crier, you know? He just kinda … yells a lot and gets red in the face.”

“You know that’s not the point.”

Eddie knows.

He picks at the sandwich, and tries to collect his thoughts. Beverly lets him, because if any of the Losers know a thing about needing time to get their shit together, it’s her.

He could tell her that it’s complicated. That the whole situation with Richie doesn’t make much sense to him, and that he’s been living in a fugue state for the past seventy-two hours. He could say that the bullshit Richie pulls, spraining a love confession on him that sounds oh so sincere, but is probably the product of an adrenaline high, is driving him insane. Eddie could say that Richie’s _always_ said shit that’s sounded a bit flirty, but has never really meant it, so really, he’s got a history of toying with Eddie’s emotions. He could argue that while Richie probably doesn’t _know_ he’s toying with Eddie’s fragile heart, he’s doing a pretty effective job. He could divulge his entire, sad romantic history with Myra that felt more like an obligation than a fairy tale.

There are a thousand things Eddie _could_ say.

What he says is this:

“It’s been a long week.”

Beverly sighs, like she understands and Eddie’s sure she does. “Listen, I didn’t mean to blow up on you. I just kind of did, so I’m sorry.”

“There’s no reason for you not to,” Eddie assures her. Beverly has been forced to apologize for so many things. For being born a girl, for being strong and opinionated. She’s had to apologize for her very existence by men who saw a spirit that matched her fiery hair and were scared shitless when they should’ve been drowning in respect. “It’s … look, I’m trying to figure it out myself. Even if he _did_ mean it, I’m not in a space to accept any feelings, or whatever.”

Beverly is quiet for a moment.

“Eddie … has anyone ever told you how fucking brave you are?”

 _A few_ , he thinks. _Mostly Richie_. And Eddie’s never believed them. A brave person wouldn’t go running back to the same toxic relationship dynamic he had with his _mother_ the moment he was free from her control. A brave person wouldn’t have tried to bury his feelings under statistics and bottles of beer that haven’t even been touched. A brave person wouldn’t —

“I _can hear you_ thinking.” She sighs in that fond way only a woman who has put up with so much bullshit can. “I know a thing or two about relationships. And I think it’s really great that you are able to tell when you should, or should not be with someone. So, take your time. Whatever you feel, or don’t feel, there’s no rush with it, okay? Just … I _do_ need you to do me a small favour.”

“Anything,” he says and he means it.

“Take care of Richie, will you?”

Eddie blinks.

“I don’t mean like, jump into bed with him, or rush anything. I just mean … exactly what I said. Take care of him. Look after him.”

“But Bev—”

There’s a sound on the other line. “Look, Eddie, sorry but I’ve gotta go. Just … watch out for him, okay?”

And she hangs up.

Eddie stares at his phone in silence.

What the fuck was that about?


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi. If this is awkward, I'm sorry.

Eddie’s looking at him.

Normally, Richie would be flattered, if not super self-conscious, but this isn’t the sort of looking one does when they’re undressing someone with their eyes. It’s not the type of once over you give a friend who got a new haircut that suddenly makes them bangable. Even more so than that, Eddie doesn’t _look_ at Richie. He never has. He glares, or nudges, or judgementally stares. But Edward Kaspbrak has never looked at Richie in his life.

If he had, maybe he’d have been less insufferable as a child. (He wouldn’t have. He’d have gotten drunk off of it and done everything in his power to keep those eyes focused on him, performing like a circus monkey.)

“What?”

“Nothing,” Eddie mumbles like a fucking liar. He’s eyeing Richie as he organizes his papers on the rarely used dining room table. Richie’s been on the couch watching better, funnier comedians on Netflix for the last three hours, and muttering to himself.

“Am I distracting you from work?”

“No,” Eddie says nonchalantly in the least nonchalant fashion.

“Talk to me, Spaghetti.”

“Just … Beverly called me.”

Richie tenses. He has a foggy memory of being in a dirty bathroom and screaming at the dude getting a blowjob to moan a little quieter, seeing as he was having a crisis and getting the finger. He can’t be held accountable for anything he may have told Bev, and has no idea what she might have told Eddie.

“Hmm?”

_Smooth, Richard._

“She said—”

“I plead the fifth.”

“I’m not a cop.”

“Shame. You’d look sexy in that uniform.” You would think after forty years of owning the mouth he has, he’d have better control over it, but he remains like a toddler who has just learnt a brand new word and insists on repeating it till kingdom come.

“I’m trying to be serious, Richie.”

“So am I. Wouldn’t mind some police brutality if it was coming from you.” He frowns. “That was below the belt, wasn’t it?”

“A bit.”

“Well, you’re the only witness to it, so I guess I’m fine.” Richie frowns at Russell Peters owns Australia. He doesn’t particularly like Peters’ style of mocking the audience, though it is a staple of comedians, but that could just be his type of humour. Still, he sells out theatres, and this special is from when they still had DVDs, so times have changed. Peters has changed. His bit about the illegal immigrant car has him in stitches, and also in pain, thinking about how he’s never had a joke land that nicely even when they were written _for_ him.

He could probably get some material out of being gay, but he hasn’t even said those words aloud _ever_ , so that’s a bust.

“Hey, ever wonder why you guys never call me Dick?”

“We do,” Eddie says.

“Never to my face.”

“Uh, yeah, we do.”

“No, not a dick, I mean, Dick. Fuck, my name’s Richard, and we went with Richie? Wasted opportunity there, let me tell you.” Eddie goes into the kitchen and starts to make himself his usual after-work snack, like a kid who just got home from school and wants a nibble before they start on homework. Eds is adorable like that.

“We knew you’d like it too much,” Eddie calls from his place in the kitchen. “Also, Dickwad, the milk’s expired.”

“You’re lactose intolerant Eddie-bear, why do you care?”

“You know I’m not!”

Richie takes a pen from the table (meant to write any funny jokes, should he come up with them, not that he ever has) and writes Milk on his arm. “2%? 1%? Skim? Almond?”

“2% is fine.”

Christ. They sound so domestic when they have talks like this. Richie can almost fool himself into thinking they’re committed partners in some kind of cohabitation relationship. He’s heard in Canada that if you live together long enough the government just kinda says _fuck it, give them marriage rights_ without the ceremony. He wonders how long it would take in LA to get the same status.

Well, then it’d be like he’s tricking Eddie into marriage, and he’s desperate, but not _that_ desperate. One bitch has already tricked Eddie into marriage and look where that’s landed him.

Richie doesn’t know how to tell Eddie that he should really quit his fucking job. It’s physically draining him, and he’s committing so much of his life to it, it’s going to dry him up way faster than it should. Sure, Richie isn’t _good_ at his job, but at least he likes it. Eddie should do something that he enjoys too. Or at least get a fucking raise at this point.

He opens his mouth to mention it when Eddie comes back into the living room with a plate of healthy food.

Richie wrinkles his nose.

“You’re a forty year old man, Rich. You gotta eat your greens at some point.”

“What do you think would happen if I just like, quit comedy?”

Eddie frowns. “What are you talking about?”

“Think I could do some Michael Jordan thing and call it quits for the chuckles?”

“You know how well that went. They made a documentary on it.”

Richie frowns. “I don’t watch documentaries.”

“This one you’ve seen.”

“Er …?”

“I know a space clown fucked with your head, but seriously? _Space Jam_?”

Oh, that’s a good one. It gets a laugh out of Richie, the kind only Eddie can trigger. It just reminds him of how _not_ funny he is. “But seriously. I could like … become a … DJ?”

“Where’s this coming from?”

“I dunno. I’m just … not funny.”

Eddie balks.

“What?”

“You _are_ funny.”

“Says you.”

“Says the thousands of theatres you’ve sold out,” says Eddie and that’s cute. It almost sounds like he means it. Like he believes Richie’s gotten where he is by _merit_ , and not some idiot writing misogamic garbage. Eddie reads the huff Richie lets out like it’s a warning label. “Seriously. I think you’re funny.”

“But you’ve never laughed at my Voices.”

“Yeah, because your voices are _dumb._ I don’t wanna hear a shitty Aussie trying to tell me a joke. I like your voice just fine, Rich. You’re funnier when you’re _you_.”

Richie swallows, his throat suddenly dry.

“Careful there, Eds. I might just start to think you like me.”

“I _do_ like you. You’re my friend, _asswipe_.”

“Asswipe. Creative.” Hopefully, Eddie doesn’t notice how his hand trembles when he brings his drink up to his lips. “Okay, fine. I’m funny.”

See, the thing is, Richie can’t trust Eddie’s opinion. Eddie’s biased. He also can’t trust stranger’s opinions, because they don’t know him enough to make any clear judgement calls. So Richie looks to history. History says that Richard Tozier is not a riot.

When he puts back down his glass, Eddie is looking at him.

The thing is, Richie has a complicated relationship with attention.

When he was younger, it was all he wanted. The stunts he’d pull in the name of someone glancing his way for more than a second. To be able to bask in the glow of someone’s entire world narrowing down to _just him_.

It never did him much good.

As he got older, he got to thinking.

Maybe there’s a reason people don’t look.

Maybe there’s something _wrong_ with him, that makes them avert their gaze. If there wasn’t, that would make just about every single person he’s encountered a total asshole, and Richie knows that can’t be true. He had decent parents. Maggie and Wentworth may have missed some ball games and forgotten a birthday or two, but they weren’t horrible. They didn’t hit him.

So maybe there’s something wrong about Richard Tozier that makes him underserving of attention.

Richie’s got a new philosophy about attention.

People can look, but not for too long.

He’s not sure if he can, at this point in his life, handle someone looking at him and realizing what it was that made him so imperfect. So unbearable to look at. Whatever fragile parts of his ego that remain would shatter instantly under a scrutinizing gaze.

Richie’s come to accept that he’s not worth staring at, and prefers it that way.

He doesn’t buy the “eyes are the window to the soul” bullshit, but it must be written on his face, somewhere, how he’s useless. How he’s just not worth a second glance.

Eddie’s gaze is the worst.

Because Richie can accept that the world doesn’t want him. But Eddie?

The one person who he’d bend over backwards for, the one person who’s words have mattered more to him than air, seeing just how flawed he is. The shame that would come from knowing you idiotically called such a disaster your best friend for years.

No.

Which is why he doesn’t like Eddie looking at him now.

“Stop that.”

“Stop what?” asks Eddie, as though he isn’t looking at Richie as though he can see the cracks in the foundation of the fortress that protects Richie from the world. As though he hasn’t discovered what a shoddy mason the comedian is, and isn’t about to poke the one beam that keeps the feeble infrastructure from crumbling.

“Just, stop it!”

“I’d stop it if I knew what I was doing!”

Richie hates this.

He always sounds _crazy_ when he gets like this.

Maybe Richie should see a therapist.

If Eddie, who can’t even tell how fucking in love with him Richie is, can tell that he’s fucked up, maybe he should make an appointment with a therapist.

Bill recommended him one shortly after Derry. Handed him a business card that Richie kept in his jacket pocket for _weeks_. It was more than he could say for a lot of other business cards he had been handed. He thought about calling. Stared at the card so many times …

Eventually, he put the jacket in the wash and the card got all fucked up.

He took it as a sign he didn’t need a therapist.

Maybe it was a sign of how badly he needed one.

“I’m turning in for the night.”

Eddie glances at the clock. “It’s barely eight.”

“Do I tell you what to do, Edward?”

“Uh, yes. Yes you do. It’s the foundation of our friendship.”

“Bad example. Just leave me alone. I’ll be right as rain in the morning.”

He stands up and brushes past Eddie because he can’t resist that contact, before closing his bedroom door as non-dramatically as he can.

He thought killing Pennywise would be the hardest thing he did in his life.

Turns out, it’s what comes after.


End file.
